EPITHET*
'There is no solace in definition,' she happened upon this cognizance without accident: 'For if clarification travels by mechanisms of such simplicity in explanation, than I must instinctively deny it passage. Though if I am overwhelmed: I would surely controvert and repudiate it altogether, thus rendering it mute upon entrance. Damn William and implementation via instrument: complication and questioning suits us until a definition actually defines and concludes.'
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She has obviously stumbled upon the most beautiful of conclusions, one which herself sees as Enlightenment without Profundity.
'Therefore I shall wait without restraint: I will pause but only for the moment in which my propulsion was distracted by the movement itself. A velocity lacking momentum, an impetus without incitation: a birth and demise occurring simultaneously: for I live what amounts to a life without declaration.'
To turn to a window at such a time is to admit presence: and with sincerity she noticed all as it passed before her.
Accusations pester! She paused to ponder the preponderance of tumult in the Actuary's account of humility: "'Dreadfulness' as antiquarian scoff, 'Dreadfulness' as the condition of things to come". (She steps never lively, she instead steps deathly with the intent to sway dissenter: are we not destined for predeterminate? What a deceptively happy family we have become: one for nothing, all for not one.)
Defective or defector? Simplicity is ever deflective: simplicity and actuality was never simple: it is a gambit, a maneuver without stake: limitations such as that which are given at birth and without a day. Dependance as equal to dependence as is equal to defenselessness. Read a Paragraph's sentence and continue to read it in reverse: only then will the deception be found in cyclic interpretations of that which is Nothingness defined: backwardness as furtherance: Struthio camelus has never been so adorably abandoned in headless desertion as it can be now… avifauna as hysterical representation of socalled 'historical' omnipresent ridiculousness. Alas!
Although the aforementioned 'Dreadfulness' prevails: for instance does not Four and Fore currently equal a filthy Fifthliness? Contemporary mathematical gymnastics aside, we must find combinatorial circumstance in collective loathing. To find hope in hopelessness—to discover love in hatred—is to decipher the value in naughtiness despite what has been taught and what shall surely be transcended via dissent in such an obvious state of descent.
She shakes her head in spite of it: to skip mirthfully in the face of it is to aggravate it intentionally: to take her hand in yours is to accept it dutifully. For to foster a flowering in the soil is to commence planting within the decomposing remnants of the Attempt at the Soiling of Being.
She finds her gaze dominated by that which has decided to appear as a reality guarded by a window pane's barrier: "When one becomes dominated by the powers of two (2²) one has lost sight of kindliness. Though it must be said and therefore it warrants no further consideration: indeed, I have forgotten it entirely."
( Déjà vécu )
Discordance as incongruity in document: she spake of disorder in deciphering that which nothingness had decided was Actuality in Dissension. They plot dictatorially whilst prancing around maypole distractions: skipping wistfully, dancing mirthfully: although unfortunately those strands shall strangle eventually.
( Déjà senti )
Who knew her previously? Even the Looking Glass may become corrupted when one pushes upon it with suspicion and conviction. Her goal is neither less nor more: ambition is a contaminate when one lacks solidity in position for Furtherance's leap.
( Déjà visité )
The brass ring shall surely not be the currency provided by the commencement of the merrygoround revolt: rather the rejecting of equestrian behavior by pedestrian shall render the rider and ride as oneness in the mirror of Fun House reflection. What once was perpetual is now perceptual: she finds herself looking into a glass once more, though for once she is more because of it.
She had found herself midskip: the peculiarities of prance and the peculation of joy from dampened state had begun to return sanctity to her everglued disbelief.
'That,' she denounced as quicked singularity: 'is evaporative. Blattidæ or rodentia, it shall retain the façade of pestilence whilst being perfection everpersonified within my dripping and everdecanted view.'
She wiped her hands of it, or it effaced itself of her.
'Gambol and romp, ballon and tripping whims: to float is to be suspended from such an everloved flight of fancy: a combustive combination: the absence of malice everaffixed to glee: the adhesion of dereliction to skepticism: true fondness from recipe, mirthfulness from receipt.'
And she then fell deathly from this imaginative trapeze: for there was never safety in a nonexistent wire. How evernimble: how everfraught. Finality becomes fictive and illusory: 'For all,' they did say, 'is for evernought.'
'It must not be Time,' she considered carefully; 'for if it were Time I would surely know of it by its precision. Inferences and implications are never kind: it is only Certainty which might be allowed to count itself amongst my confidants and allegiances.'
She evaded Avenue collision with the intent to circumvent instances: a spacing between edifice and premises allowing for equanimity and peace. These structures tower around her, comforting and caressing calmness: the blanketing of tranquility gifted by girder and stone. She paused to consider carefulness once more and decided against the acceptance of Time's impediment to continuance: instead she chose to beg Difference for aspiration and expectation.
'What is Distance Three?' she asked of herself. 'Distance Nothing would be far more apt. I shall seek preservation in perseverance: I shall begin alongside Adaptation's germination and advancement. It shall be quite similar to a florescence springing from Gutter's grating: however contaminated, however beautiful, however fleeting.'
She sits as signatory: indentured, committed, and admonished. What festered has succumbed to a solving: beneficial to benefactor: a witnessing to a rather winning inception.
‘For one to be startled by a Starting is altogether unusual, dearest. Must not there be an absence of predecessor for such a beginning to occur? Why, my only neighbor is the previous: the past my only kin. One often finds One in the pocket of a predeterminate, it is as if Fate itself met with fatality: I find myself willing: but never able to rejoice.’
She glanced beside herself where she discovered herself sitting nearby, though not nearly close enough. She became less distant and found herself even more alone than before.
‘It is for you that I shall relinquish and renounce Nothing: as that is all I have. Perhaps this Starting, this potentiality in unfamiliarity, this poisoned correction… Perhaps It will be the executioner of answer, the quandary of rejoinder: the part of the past which shall forever refuse to be mended and thus put this Starting on its way.’
'Such hospitality as a personality protectorate: a required respite and a momentary quietude induced. A pleasantry as pasture, a peacefulness personified: a parlour, a sadness detached and left in dustbin for permanence and placement. How I adore cabinet and fixture!'
With a blink she looked back upon hearing Door's sudden latching. She then turned to face furtherance and future: was the daydream a requirement for Newness' rehearsal? was the cloudiness irritated by the reemergence of clarity? She continued to stalk passage, each step carrying her towards sunning daylight and a return to freedom's charm: an acclimation to asylum now moulting: Distance Three must now acquire regeneration in preparation for harmfulness and pain.
She departed with dismissal in hand and sang to herself whilst proudly ignoring the congestion within hallway and stair…
"These machinations of mine have been spinning for years:
not one shall find the ability to deter me now.
All I must do is discover just what It is:
I have the mind & means so do believe in that & me."
'How startling it must be…' she said: now finding herself betwixt folly and chance; 'how disconcerting it is to find oneself wholly separated from plan, so desperately and completely detached from prior machination and erstwhile sourcing.'
She looked upon herself so as to view through herself: a mirror's offering would never provide such reflection. For her this detached inflection itself is the beautiful destruction of identity, the dismantling of singularity, the dismissal of charm: the erasure of that cognition of distinctiveness.
'Though as I must persist as an individual ( for am I nothing else? ), I am bound by a solitude so immense in its precision that it challenges my own conception of individuality. For as I am a society alone within a self, and by instinct I am compelled to revolt against that society, am I anything but One at war with selfsame Oneness?'
Everything had vanished: she was not familiar with setting nor surrounding. The panels of Story had at first cracked and then fallen from wall and remnant entirely. Like scorched Earth: the world itself had become an interconnected series of fissures, each offering nothing: each as useless as the next.
'You are the denial of mediocrity, my sweet,' she spoke to it, as it nodded to her knowingly. 'I did not know her, but of her: and one becomes aware of Alice's vantage when greeted with a Difference such as self. What is your conception of incertitude, that related to the intermittency of scintillation: this infuriating impishness of spark?'
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She expected and received no answer, for as she queried her eyes were darting madly around the alcove, as the ludic playfulness of the medium danced in and out of vision, the ability of her attention challenged once by this frolic of perception, and twice by the visitation of it. Adoration was replaced by agitation, and she whispered to neither:
'How am I ever going to join temperament, what must I do to reclaim calmness? There is finite time to be spent, and I would certainly rather spend it with it.'
She refused to be defeated so early in the morning, before any true adversary had been met: these antagonisms of subsequence, the henceforward and the hereafter, the loveliness of predestined opposition in a guise of opened opportunity.
From the periphery of presence she recognized coruscation, the quickness of spark, the evidence of appearance: the incendiary instigator had most certainly returned. She offered her gratitude, as now the tonic of promise may be admixed with elixir: the Afore shall become met with Renascence, and all would be well.
As she reached for instrument, it once again eluded her, although this time she was able to witness its sudden disappearance. She spoke aloud in hope that the invisible device would discern her concern:
'This is an unwelcome behaviour on behalf of our needed apparatus. The mechanism is obviously playful, for I shall not believe it to be apoplectic: I have done to it no harm, nor would I ever. It knows of its worth, and I am not one to deny it its importance: its offering is surely unique to it, therefore there is no doubting its significance. I must wait for it to reappear.'
She crouched down and brought her arms around her knees, slowly rocking to and fro in a solemn patience, for her choices were limited to this: a waiting. As she stared at the ground, a visitor emerged from the wall, its curiosity first limited to the twitch of whisker from hollow: the exploration of antennae from fissure, but henceforth becoming an entirety in manifestation.
'Hello,' she said, quite delighted by the arrival of this creature. 'This I did not expect on a morning so rife with assumed acrimony, perhaps things will not be so awful after all.' And a tear formed from the corner of her eye, one neither joyous nor desponding.
Upon such statement of conviction she felt reassured, if only by her Selfishness, and thusly the day would be allowed to defile propensity unfettered. She then caressed nothingness and pulled her diminutive yet contumacious body towards the promise of resuscitation. She felt such steadfast obdurateness that she was obliged to plead to it:
'Once there, we shall have rejuvenation: this I pledge. If only you allow me the conveyance needed—please give to me mobility—if permitted movement, everything else may remain with sameness' pendant and charm. I cannot take from you your disagreement, your hostility: all I ask is for a temporary animation.'
With the protestation of a gear brought to life from a state of rusting, she felt her Self propel in the direction of the alcove: her denting, her niched recessing: her comfort in cavity causing unease in the continuity of room. Once within shelter she struggled to recollect the positioning of matchstick, a necessity for the perpetuation of vow. Where could it have gone, along with the others which accompany it so snugly in box? She found the need to grip firmly to a table's stability, as her mind had suddenly lost such solidity in this rushing of misthought:
'Memories are enemies,' she gasped, 'memories are the incarnation of Time's animosity towards Matter or Fact.'
This dawn did not upset her as so many had previously for its Welcoming was courteous: softly suggesting ambitiousness, and forgoing the assault of its past performances. She asked of it, and it gave in abundance: verification of capability; substantiation of faculty, facility, and means.
She blinked twice more and rose. Stepping from her nest of serapes which kept her from the coldness of flooring whilst slumbering, she found footing in daybreak: her window was now an aperture to an operetta: the sky a harlequin reacting confusedly to this new presence of a rising Sun. She was above them but beneath herself, and this fact caused her to wince in realization:
'I must remember my circumstance, at whatever cost. I must remain resigned to this placement, I must remember, surely I must.'
She turned from the window and sighed: at once too painfully aware of the anger of preservation, at twice too numb to care much about it now.
'Surely, surely I must .'
Her eyelids opened to nothingness, or was it simply blackness as an absolute? She blinked and turned into the silence: it was a curiosity in its abandonment of mechanism, as if engineering was never enough.
Her hand grasped for timelessness: & she realized hazily that punctuality had become unwound. At sometime during the night things had revolted against the constraints of a clockwork existence: springs became disinterested and gears had ceased to care. She blinked again and turned into the morning which was now slicing though her pane: the blued darkness dictated earliness and she thought to herself in a tempered panic:
'I have yet to be expelled.'
Like Posterity's flower, she lay pressed between the pages of a memoir: a record of induced misery: the prettiest of oppressive leaves bound by the historical annals of exploitation and abuse. Laying bound against the ground, her self was held firmly to the soil by the weighted force of unseen tormentors. Under this harsh parasol of perpetual predicament she strained to view her hand as it writhed, grasping for the purchase of flora: the inflorescence bending towards her so as to offer rooting, a useless attempt at rescue. She knew friendship then, and the inflorescence knew love for her.
From beneath the seeming endless increase of pressure she began to suffocate, as there was no mercy from this punishment of compression, no compassion in this judgement brought against her. With what energy remained she called to her captors: "I am guilty of imagination, curiosity, and instinct: I am cognizant of my crimes. It is my rejection of your imaginary soul, your insensibility, your socalled divinity that shall allow me to prevail: my repudiation insists I remain." And with a breath she fell unconscious.
Whilst sleeping she envisioned herself poised in conversation with a Sentinel, one who barred her from entering through a gate, an entrance of which she knew as her own.
"I shall never allow you passage," spoke the Sentinel. "Did you learn nothing from the allegory from which you borrowed for your dream?"
"On the contrary, I learned everything from it." And while she pushed past, the Sentinel did quickly begin to fade until ceasing to exist entirely.
When she awoke she found herself unbound, sitting before the inflorescence which had so recently strained to emancipate her.
"How did this sudden freedom come to be?" She asked the inflorescence.
"This freedom did not come to be, for it was always here. You simply came to it," responded the inflorescence before turning to delight the wind with its redolence.
